“Aren’t you going to have a wash for our first meeting with your parents as an actual couple?” Seb says, a towel round his waist, hair slicked back. Ah he smells great: fresh and clean.
“No,” I say, from the sofa where I am snuggled up watching Wimbledon. “Had a wash yesterday. They won’t expect me to wash. Come on Rafa!”
Rafa is losing to Dustin Brown – the German Jamaican with long dreadlocks.
“Well I’m ready,” Seb says a few minutes later. He’s wearing jeans, a long sleeved blue shirt and trainers.
“Have you got everything you need for a night at my parentals?” I say. “Give me five minutes.” I’ve removed my sleep wear and am wandering around the bedroom in a pair of knickers.
“Oh, are we staying the night?” Seb says, looking confused.
“Yes darling,” I say, opening the wardrobe and gazing at all my dresses in their garish colours: red, orange, turquoise and multicoloured ones. “What dress shall I wear or…”
“Can I just put a pair of pants and a t shirt in your bag then?” Seb says, handing them to me. My room is the scene of a burglary it seems: there are shirts and trousers and bags all over the floor.
“Have you got your phone charger?” I say, pulling on my grey dress emblazoned with the scarlet macaw. “And the batteries for your smoking device and your wallet and phone and…”
“Oh, we mustn’t take this,” he says, brandishing a phone charger cable. “I borrowed it from my sister’s friend yesterday and I must return it tomorrow or…”
“Is your phone charged, darling,” I say, picking up my favourite of the new flower headbands. “Do you think I can wear this one?”
Somehow, at long last, we are both ready and leave the house. We have, I am sure, missed dinner. The parentals will wonder what has happened to us.
“It’s me,” I call from the station platform at 7.19pm.
“Where are you?” Mum says, sounding worried.
“Well we were all watching Roger and then I went down for my sleep and when I woke up Rafa was losing and…”
“He is losing,” Mum says. “People are saying that he needs a new coach who isn’t Uncle Toni and…”
“Is Rafa losing?” A random chap on the station platform says, looking concerned.
“Yes,” I say. “What’s the score, Mum?”
“Who is that?” Mum says.
“A chap on the platform,” I say.
“He put money on Rafa to win the tournament,” Seb says, returning from a chat with Random Platform Man as I put the phone down. “I love Dustin Brown. He’s a wonderful player.”
The train pulls in and we squeeze into a carriage.
Attached photo is the fluffy monster hiding under the table for a bit of shade this morning.
Happy Friday everyone!
*1925. By Suzanne Lenglen. Classic tennis novel by one of the all time great tennis players.